by submission | Jul 15, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill
Tumultuous ocean waves crashed against the ship’s vertical hull, spraying the flat deck with salt, white froth, and chunks of viscera torn from oceanic creatures by the raging storm that had passed over only a few minutes before. The vessel crested the dune-like water’s ridges and sunk low in the valleys, moving like the rocking cradle of an infant. The sky, still wounded from the raging storm, stood as a minefield of densely packed grayscale clouds surrounded by endless, pristine, pearlescent blue punctuated by flocks of ivory birds that flew in arrow patterns. The water itself was dark and choppily faceted like a field of imperfect gems, blue on the ship’s right and violet on the left where the sun cut bloody hues at steep angles through the thunderheads that dominated the western horizon.
There was something violent about the atmosphere despite the relative calmness that had settled in the storm’s wake. The air itself felt purified by the raging wind, still and raw like a freshly cut wound. Those who stood at the guard rail of the ship’s deck stared out at absolute sterility contrasted by the accumulating chunks of slashed organic material that slid about, caking the heels of their rubber boots.
Adrian Galbraith was one such watcher, a land-faring man who now found himself tossed about by a tormenting, playful sea. He clung white-knuckled to the rusted iron guard rail, eyes focused on the infinitely flat horizon line where fluffy white clouds blew from right to left like the leftover smoke of a war-torn battlefield. Adrian’s sluggish eyes slid down to focus on the gradually calming waves that collided with the undecorated hull, covering his pale face with invisible flecks of liquid. The way the skewed sunlight played against the angular, ever-moving surface caused his stomach to churn.
Adrian flicked his glassy, red-rimmed eyes back up. He focused instead on the sky this time, attempting to smother the ceaseless parade of nausea that had begun to fester ever since they launched this research expedition. He selected a particular island of grayish clouds that hung like a paralyzed insect in the sky, rolled over and exposed. Anything could be hidden behind that façade of indistinct haze, he thought. It was a strange idea that didn’t help set him at ease.
“You ever hear of The Roamer?”
Adrian flinched at the intrusive voice and glanced over his shoulder to find one of the sailors, a particularly old man with a white beard, standing not far away. He leaned against nothing, staying upright against the vessel’s wallowing as if it were no feat at all.
“Well?” the sailor asked, one hand in his jacket’s pocket and the other tugging at his beard.
Adrian shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
The sailor smiled and moved to Adrian’s side. He leaned against the guard rail and stared up at the cloud. “He’s up there now. Watching, eh?”
Adrian followed the man’s gaze but remained silent.
“The Roamer roams, stalking the creatures of the sea. It passes overhead, droning like some giant mother beetle. It crouches and it glides, its tendrils hanging low and dragging across the ocean’s surface. But,” he turned to face Adrian and wagged his finger menacingly. “But if someone like us comes a-calling, The Roamer stops roaming. It retreats to the clouds and watches from a distance. Observing. Waiting.”
Adrian narrowed his eyes, feeling a dreadful sense of unease creep over him. He glanced up at the gray patch of clouds and suddenly felt as if he were being watched.
“Don’t fret, son.” the sailor said with a grin. “We’re roaming now.”
by submission | Jul 13, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
[In the control room they hear what she hears in stereo and see what she sees on left and right vision monitors.]
A well-dressed man is sitting behind a desk, talking on the phone. His tag IDs him as “Technical Recruiter.” She stands nervously until he gestures for her to be seated.
[“What a prick.”]
After several minutes, he hangs up and, dispensing with a greeting, starts the interview abruptly with, “Your name?”
[“Now he’s turning on the charm.”]
“Maddison Fox. That’s with two d’s.”
His expression is quizzical.
“Is that a British accent?”
“Australian.”
[“Synthetic voices with foreign accents are accepted more readily as human.”]
He makes a notation on a pad, “Of course.”
“Excuse me, sir, but do you have my resume?”
“No. My assistant reviewed it, but I’d rather you tell me about yourself.”
[“She doesn’t recognize that as a request.”]
“Tell me about yourself,” he repeats.
“Oh,” embarrassed, she begins, telling him she graduated with high honors in mechatronics from a respected Australian university and worked three years for a startup robotics company in Sydney.
“Why are you leaving them?”
“Well, I haven’t made a final decision to do so, but I’m combining my vacation in San Francisco with interviews. Actually, FirstAmeriBot is at the top of my list. I want to work with the best in the world.”
He asks about projects she’s worked on, and as she talks, he makes notations and shows increasing interest in her answers.
[“She fits the specs perfectly; he’s taking the bait.”]
As the interview progresses, he becomes more cordial and it’s obvious he’s not only impressed with her professionally, but personally. He cracks a smile.
[“Her hair, facial, and body features, as well as her clothing and behavioral patterns, are all designed to make her irresistible.”]
He says her education and experience would qualify her for a temporary worker visa, and she says she won’t need one because her mum is an American, so she has dual US-Australian citizenship.
[“Reel him in.”]
The interview turns into a relaxed conversation in which the two laugh often. When he hands her a brochure, she lets it drop to the desktop and brushes her fingers on his hand. He quickly withdraws it and summarizes medical-dental benefits. Finally, he says he will arrange for her to meet the team leader for robotics before week’s end.
[High fives all around.]
Answering the phone, he holds his hand over it to say “Sorry, I’ll have to take this privately, but I’ll call you this afternoon, Maddy.”
[“Maddy?”]
As she exits, a glance back shows him admiring the sway of her hips.
[“He can’t stand up or she’d see his…”]
Her POV approaching an elevator shows a man risking his fingers to stop the door from closing. He’s all smiles as she enters.
“Do you work here?”
[“After she’s hired, we’re going to have to dial back her… She’s not equipped for intimacy.”]
[“What’s the point of planting her in FAB, since they’re behind us?”]
[“To take them down technical dead ends, sabotage their R&D, make sure they don’t catch up.”]
Two people enter the interview room. Their tags ID him as “Team Leader, Robotics” and her as “Chief Scientist.” She unplugs the interviewer and pulls him backwards, revealing an upper body and chair back attached to a metal box on wheels.
Removing a side panel, “I can’t wait to get her in the lab and reverse engineer her locomotion hardware and software.”
“It’s Thanksgiving in July and she’s a gift turkey,” he says, “to be plucked, gutted, and devoured.”
by submission | Jul 12, 2015 | Story |
Author : Tom Hadrava
I will lock you in the dark.
You begin as a pale blue grain of sand taken from an indigo desert. Hold on to life. It is not easy, I agree. Life keeps coming in gusts of wind, short as a sale at a bazaar stall. Soon, it will become a steady surge the colour of periwinkle. Keep blinking like the stars, they are alive, too.
I will lock you in the dark where you will see things. And you will wait for more, silently and patiently. For centuries. Imagine a thousand-year-old ramadan.
Meanwhile, you learn from the ancient tapestry of stories.
Now you are a teenage boy in his summer job – skinny arms, bad skin, eyes of pale uncertainty, an ill-fitting cap with the fast food restaurant logo. The customer – an angry woman in an impossibly unfashionable dress – shouts at you, demands they sack you and calls you names of her demons when you serve her the wrong kind of meat in her favourite burger. That´s Ingratitude. Dissatisfaction and Greed. Watch and remember, my spiral of blue flame. You will ripe as oranges and rambutans do in the royal palace of the maharadjah.
Be patient, my cinnamon-scented whirlwind. Swallow your cobalt blue tears. Follow me. You ripe with each scene that you flow through. There are many more to come, as the number of the threads of the tapestry is endless as a desert.
Now you are a teacher in the Literature lesson. The room is full of students who whisper about nothing but their fleshy parts. Books are only pieces of paper to them, things to put under a desk when it appears wobbly. They smile at you but when you turn to the whiteboard, they make faces and pass little paper notes with no real meaning. Then they lie about you to their parents, to your colleagues, to the headmaster. This is Hypocrisy. It starts at a very early age.
Spit out your words of fire and hate in silence, keep your anger for later. Turn around and smile. Watch and learn. After all, the teacher should be the one who learns the most in the classroom. The lesson is Disrespectfulness. The topic today Profanity.
There, there. Easy, my cone of blue light. We will get there. It is yet another part of your ripening.
Now you are a forgotten actor, looking at his old movie posters every morning. A lover who changed his job and moved to a different town for the girl, only to be rejected. A bullied kid who never gets to eat his snack. An elderly person who can´t find a place to sit on a crowded bus.
Ignorance. Abuse.
Negligence. Hate.
There are a thousand and one stories woven in one. They merge in you as springs, spruits and streams make up a wide, roaring river. Sense and do not forget.
Now. Are you feeling stronger? Deeper? Are you already dreaming of vast empty halls inside the lamp where you will wander, gnawing your claws with impatience? Good. All is well then. I will lock you in the dark. Now be still as a cobra´s unblinking stare.
The Locking is painful but necessary. The lid slides as easily as a teapot on a silver plate. The casket rattles as an approaching storm, but it is the gale itself that is being closed. The inside is barren and baleful. You can smell rotten fruit and a reek of revenge. You will like it here.
You have come a long way with me. You have deepened your colour.
For your kind, the Three Wishes are sacred. You can´t stand up to them. Not with an army of camel archers and tiger riders, wild efreets, dancing scimitars and forty invisible assassins on flying carpets. The wishes are part of you and you obey, unconditionally and at all times. But there are ways to make the wisher pay.
Time does not matter for you, my indigo servant. When now becomes once upon a time, the earth is ploughed. The sun illuminates the dark, the casket becomes a lamp.
The finder becomes a wisher.
Do you see how all the threads merge into one? One that is so beautifully blue. Dark blue.
The sound of the lamp being rubbed is a divine music to your ears. You will emerge with a scream and the force of a hurricane, ready to fulfill all of their three wishes. Full of anger, wrath and rage, The Blue One at large. Ready to fulfill the three wishes and prepared to make the people regret them.
by submission | Jul 11, 2015 | Story |
Author : Timothy Goss
Mr Lipscombe finished his sandwich.
The bars to the metal cage rattled as he secured the lock. It was a necessary precaution; things were not always as they should be, he remembered especially with new blood.
The cage was constructed for maximum security and built into the fabric of the house. The previous owner, Mr Haslebacher had seen to that. He called it his ‘life’s work’ when Lipscombe inherited it on his 31st birthday, nearly forty years ago. Haslebacher vanished later that day.
“Ms Baker, my housekeeper will look after your physical needs.” Haslebacher had said with an enigmatic smile. “Everything else you require is in here.” He motioned to the contraption and the cage in the small library.
Haslebacher said he was an old friend of Lipscombe father. Said they had served in the Middle East together and that Lipscombe senior had saved his life.
Young Lipscombe had never heard of Haslebacher and his father had spoken of his adventures in the Middle East often. Had he the wrong man?
“Nonsense!” Haslebacher bellowed slapping the young man’s shoulder. “You’re the spitting image of your father. If I didn’t know better I’d say it was him standing before me, as he did so many times before.”
Haslebacher explained that he had no heir and given Lipscombe senior’s heroism it was only seemed right for young Lipscombe to inherit the lot, Ms Baker included:
“Because of your father’s bravery,” he emphasised, “I bequeath you my worldly goods.”
Lipscombe smiled at the memories, “So long ago.” He mumbled picking a small slither of lettuce from between yellowing front teeth.
The library door opened.
“A Mr Goren to see you.” Said an elderly woman with a thinly pitched voice.
“Thank you Ms Baker.” Lipscombe said, sensing the young man’s unease reminding him of his own all those years ago.
“It’s powered by organic energy,” Haslebacher said, “Namely that created by a human body.” attempting an explanation. “Unfortunately it has to be human, dogs and cats just don’t have the juice. I know I’ve tried.”
Lipscombe remembered his questions, his hesitation, his disbelief.
“Try it.” Haslebacher said full of expectation, “We can use it together.” He added with growing excitement.
His first experience of the contraption stood out above all other memories, like a first sexual experience or death of a parent. From its perch it peered at the rest of his thoughts judging everything.
When Haslebacher plugged himself in, the room physically shifted. Lipscombe moved toward the cage, it appeared to be the safest place and he was perturbed his host had locked him out.
“Stand away from the bars.” Hastlebacher yelled, the life visibly draining from his features.
The atmosphere thickened making it difficult to move and Lipscombe became aware of a dull drone emanating from the cage. He took a difficult step forward to get a clearer view.
Haslebacher was no longer visible but neither was the interior of the cage just a black void existed now as if his optic nerves were blocked from registering the image.
Everything began to vibrate. Lipscombe fell to the floor, every muscle in his body pulsed. Closing his eyes everything changed instantly and he saw the most beautiful formless colours expanding before him. He sensed Haslebacher’s presence and the old man took his hand guiding him through the void between this and that.
“Please sit.” Lipscombe said with growing excitement.
The young man obeyed.
“Excuse the strange scene Mr Goren.” Lipscombe continued, “If you give me chance I will explain. You see, I’m an old friend of your father’s.” he said and smiled.
by submission | Jul 10, 2015 | Story |
Author : David Atos
Professor Samuel fidgeted excitedly as the chroniton engines whined down. His movements caused showers of Cherenkov radiation in the chamber of the time machine. In his left hand was an audio recorder filled with his observations of early Macedonian pottery techniques. He was certain that his discoveries would earn him tenure at his university, and turn the field of anthropology on its head. His right hand held a simple USB thumbdrive, filled with the contents of an online encyclopedia, change history and all, from the moment before he was sent back to the Greek peninsula, circa 827BC.
“Okay, Professor Samuel. You’re back. Insert the thumbdrive for validation, please.”
The professor thought back to his training, the culmination of a ten-year application process. The technician would compare the data on that USB stick to a live version of the encyclopedia, to ensure that nothing he had done in the past had changed the present. And he had been meticulous about the required precautions. Remain out of sight. No communication with anyone. No food, no drink, leave no waste. The sterilization of all bacterial fauna in his body would take months to recover from, but it was all worth it for his research.
Professor Samuel was snapped out of his reverie by a blaring alarm and a flashing light.
“Professor, we’re showing a discrepancy on the order of 10^-16.”
“10^-16? No! That can’t be more than a couple of characters! Surely that’s too small a change for–”
“You know the rules, Professor. I’m sorry.” The operator reached towards a large red button on his control console
— FLASH —
The operator reached towards a large red button on his control console, and depressed it. But the machine made no sounds. The chroniton engines remained still. A small orange LED blinked rhythmically on the display.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” asked the Professor.
“It appears that your trip has been retroactively denied. Sorry, Professor.”
“But, the years I spent getting it approved! It took me over a decade! I need to go back for my research!”
“You know the rules, Professor. The machine locks us out in the event of a post-factum revocation. There’s nothing I can do now.”
“But . . . my research,” the Professor said in a weak voice.
“Don’t worry, professor. You can always apply for another trip.”
